Family Is Forever
by sherlockiANNE
Summary: Holmes and Watson are called to the States to solve a mystery for a family member Holmes hasn't seen in years. This is my first fanfic ever,so please be kind Rated for anything I might add in the future. Any canon character is not my creation.
1. The Letter

**Chapter 1**

Watson:

Despite not being on a case, Holmes had woken in a remarkably good mood, waking me by playing a sprightly piece on his violin, singing as he dressed, joking with me over breakfast. However, his mood suddenly took a turn for the worse with the arrival of the morning post. I did not ask, but it was obvious that a letter bearing an American post mark was the cause of his distress. For the rest of the day, he brooded, pacing about the room, refusing luncheon, and all the while reading and rereading that letter.

He and I had been rooming together for about three years at this point, and I was rather used to his mood swings, but it was still somewhat surprising when he suddenly sat down in front of me at the dinner table and calmly asked me to pass the potatoes as if nothing had happened. But as I said I was used to him, and so did so without giving him more than a glance as I was rather absorbed in an article from one of the evening papers. "You've made up your mind about whatever it was then?" I inquired, expecting the answer he would give to be that he had a new case. However, the answer I got was the last thing I expected.

"It was a family matter. Have you ever been to the states, Watson?"

I looked up, completely startled, "No, I haven't, Holmes but I wasn't aware that you had family there?"

He gave me what seemed to be a rather sad smile. "No, I don't suppose you would, as I have never had occasion to mention them before. I shall be leaving tomorrow if I can secure the tickets." He hesitated. "Would you like to accompany me? I'll pay your passage of course. I …I would greatly appreciate it if you would come, and…I feel I may need your…assistance before this case is over." He looked down at his plate as he said this last, purposely avoiding my gaze.

"Of course, I will come, provided I won't be intruding."

"Watson, I assure you, you will be most welcome."

After that last statement, he refused to say anything more on the matter, but at least he seemed to have regained a measure of his lost good mood, and we spent a very pleasant evening, our conversation being interspersed with Holmes's violin solos. However, America, and all topics related to it were strictly avoided.

* * *

Holmes:

Even on such short notice, one stateroom would not have been difficult to obtain. The difficulty was that I needed tickets for two and preferably close together. However, it was worth the extra trouble to know that my friend would be by my side, and so the next afternoon, after a good deal of bartering and the calling in of several favors, Watson and I found ourselves on a train to Portsmouth in order to catch an evening ship to the states.

I could feel his eyes on me; I knew he had to be dying of curiosity, yet I honestly didn't know where to start, and I wasn't exactly sure I wanted to discuss it at all, though I knew he was going to learn all about it eventually. I have never felt comfortable talking about my past – or even thinking about it for that matter, mostly because I know that it will bring up emotions that I would prefer to keep buried. So rather than have it all out and get it over with, I remained silent and buried myself in my newspaper for the duration of the ride, knowing that Watson was to much of a gentleman to question me on a topic he knew I didn't want to discuss.

It was past eight o'clock when we reached to ship and we had less than an hour before its departure. Immediately upon boarding, I went to inspect the two staterooms that would be our homes until we reached the States. Finding them quite satisfactory, though possibly not quite worth what I had been forced to pay for them, I left Watson in his room to unpack, and after unpacking a few necessities for myself, settled down on my bed to smoke and think over this terribly personal case that I was allowing myself to be dragged away from London to solve.


	2. A Discussion of the Past

Thanks to everyone who reviewed! I needed that boost of confidence. I hope this chapter lives up to your expectations.

In case anyone was wondering, I am writing this under the assumption that The Greek Interpreter took place the second year of their acquaintance.

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**Chapter 2**

Watson:

It was not until the day before reaching our destination that I found an opportunity to discuss the case with Holmes. Up to that point he had avoided anything to do with it, and I was dangerously close to giving in to my curiosity and asking him some questions point blank, when he actually brought up the topic for himself.

"I suppose that you would like to know something about our _client_ before we arrive?" he asked as we strolled down the deck after breakfast.

"Yes, but you did say that it is a family matter and I understand if you prefer to keep the details to yourself."

"No, it will spare us both a great deal of embarrassment if you understand the situation ahead of time…"he hesitated and leaned against the rail, "Maybe it's best to start at the beginning. I am actually the youngest son in a family of six children, only three of whom, myself included, lived to reach adulthood. You have probably noticed that, while Mycroft and I care for each other as brothers, we are not especially close. It was not so with my sister Rose and I. Being only a year apart we became very close. In fact, I might even attribute my bachelorhood to the fact that I have never found a woman whose company could rival that of my sister. We shared many of the same interests, and after our parents and two of our siblings died in a train accident, we became even closer. However, while I was away at college the next year, she met an American lawyer who was in England on holiday, and a year later they were married. Coming so soon after a loss, I viewed her marriage as desertion. I admit that I behaved rather childishly at the wedding, and both of us lost our tempers. I have not spoken to her, seen her, or even written to her since, for my pride would not allow me to apologize even after they moved to America. The letter I received last week was from her and she said…well, perhaps you should read it for yourself."

He removed the envelope from his breast pocket and handed it to me. Even with my rather mediocre skills, I could tell that it had been written by a well-educated lady, who could afford good quality paper, and also that it had been much handled by my friend. It read as follows:

_Dearest Sherlock,_

_I wish to apologize for my words to you at the wedding. It was wrong of me to lose my temper in that way, and I only hope that you can forgive me. _

_Mycroft sent me a copy of the Strand last month, and since then my children have talked of nothing else, to the point of begging me to have you for a visit. As I wish to see you again for myself, this letter is in part an invitation. However, it is also a plea for help._

_I realize that you and Alec did not get along, but now you may be the only one who can help him. Please, if not for his sake than for that of me and my children, do not desert us._

_Every man has enemies, and as a lawyer, Alec has more than most, having built the cases which have put several desperate men behind bars. Therefore, a few threats were hardly something to greatly concerned over. However, the situation has now gone beyond threats. Twice his office has been broken into and our house once, and only yesterday, an attempt was made on his life. The problem is not a lack of suspects, for indeed there are far too many of them, but rather a lack of evidence. The police are useless; they can find nothing at all. At this point, all we know is that more than one man is involved, that they read our local newspaper, and that one of them smokes; hardly enough to build a case upon._

_Sherlock, I am near beside myself with worry! I realize that after the way I treated you, I do not have the right to ask for anything, but please, I am begging you, come. I need your help. Please, forgive me._

_Your Loving Sister,_

_Rose Jacobsin_

_P.S. If you wish to invite your friend, Dr. Watson, to join you, feel free to do so. Alec and I would love to meet him. R.J._

"What do you make of it, Watson?" Holmes asked as I handed him back the letter.

"She is quite obviously worried…"

"Terrified, Watson. We may not have spoken in several years, but she could not have changed that much. She has always been extremely calm even in a crisis, and her pride is legendary, yet here you see her handwriting change rapidly for the worse as the letter progresses. And to actually beg me for help, indicates an unusual amount of stress. I also get the feeling that there is something else she isn't telling me." He paused to light his pipe and seemed to consider for a moment, "Oh well, no doubt we shall hear all about it when we reach Baltimore tomorrow. Are you up for a fencing match, Watson?"

I wanted very much to know more, but took this sudden change of topic to mean that he wished to discuss it no further. "You know you're going to beat me," I said with a smile.

"Oh come, Watson, you're actually rather good, you just need to be more confident…I'll even play billiards with you when we're through," he answered in a playful tone.

Having effectively driven all depressing thoughts from his mind, I laughed and followed him to the gymnasium, determined to make him work for his victory.


	3. Reunion

I'm really proud of myself - three updates in three days, but if I say anything beyond that I will instantly be struck down by writer's block.

Once again thanks to all those that reviewed.

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**Chapter 3**

Holmes:

I couldn't help but feel nervous as I gave my sister's address to the cab driver. I had changed a great deal since she had last seen me at nineteen; how was she going to react? For that matter how was I going to react? When I had last seen her she had been a mere slip of a girl, now she was a mother, for she had mentioned children. Gracious, I was an uncle, and I didn't even know if they were nieces or nephews, let alone how old they were or even how many; Mycroft had never told me. What would they think of me? For some reason that seemed a very important point to my mind, and so I had taken even more care than usual with my dressing that morning. I had even purchased a bag of sweets for them as a sort of pledge of friendship, though if they were anything like my sister they would take to me right off without any prodding.

Despite her remarkable ability to hold a grudge when she thought herself wronged, Rose had always been the most openly affectionate member of our family. When we were growing up, father had been forced to have another room built onto the stables so that she could have a place to keep all the strays she was constantly bringing home, and she had behaved the same way with people. I distinctly remember an incident when she was thirteen; we had gone to church alone for some reason that I no longer remember and on the way home she had given away her shawl to a beggar child, willing to shiver for the rest of the way home because she knew a warm fire was waiting for us and the child had nothing. Unlike Mycroft and I, she had had a great many friends, and it seemed her goal in life was to make people happy.

In spite of all my attempts to prevent it, my mind flowed naturally from this to the night after the train wreck. She had been injured when it went off the rails, and there were tears in her eyes that I knew weren't from physical pain, yet she had rapped her arms around me and let me cry my grief out, whispering words of comfort, though her own voice was threatening to break. She always had known exactly what I needed, and if it was within her power she had given it to me without a thought for herself. Now someone was threatening harm to someone who gave _her_ great happiness, and if it was within my power I was not going to let it happen. This case left no room for failure; it was personal.

Watson:

Holmes was doing a dreadful job of hiding his agitation from me as we rode to his sister's house. To the casual observer, he was calm as ever, but sitting across from him in the cab, I could see the depth and range of emotions struggling for mastery of his expressive eyes. It was a relief when I saw resolve and determination win out just as we reached our destination.

The Jacobsin house was a comfortable, white, cottage style home with a large front yard surrounded by a white picket fence almost completely overgrown with honeysuckle. The whole place had an air of simple welcoming elegance that gave me the feeling of being home even though I had never seen it before.

As Holmes and I walked toward the house, we were caught unawares by a little boy abruptly dropping from one of the trees growing next to the path. He looked to be about seven years old with curly reddish-brown hair and a snub nose that gave him a comical, endearing look when he smiled, but it was his eyes that I noticed first; they were merely a youthful copy of the very eyes I had been observing on the ride here.

"Hallo, can I help you, gentlemen?" he asked with astonishing seriousness as he brushed himself off and held out his hand.

My friend's mouth twitched in a smile and he took the boys hand. "I think so, young man. Is your mother home? I would like to speak with her, if I may," he answered with a matching amount of gravity.

"She sure is. Hey, Sally, go tell Mama that Uncle Sherlock is here and he brought his friend." At this a little girl who looked to be about five, with sleek dark hair and blue eyes, poked her head out shyly from behind the tree, then nodded and darted into the house without a word.

Holmes was visibly shocked, and I was hard put to suppress a chuckle at seeing the same look on his face that so frequently adorned that of his clients. It was the first time I had ever seen Holmes struck dumb, but he recovered quickly. "How did you know that I was your uncle when we had not been introduced?" he asked.

The little boy grinned and his relationship to Holmes became even more obvious as he began to explain, "It was easy. Mama had said that Uncle Sherlock might be comin' to visit us sometime this week, and you match her description of him exactly. Also you're carryin' suitcases, and I have observed that the only people who do that are relatives who plan to stay for a while. Who else could you be?"

My friend looked as if he was about to answer, when a woman's voice called out, "Sherlock!"

We looked up to see a rather beautiful dark-haired woman in her late twenties standing on the porch. Her features were softer, but the resemblance between her and her brother was still very striking; I was fast coming to realize that those grey eyes were a family trait. She was also quite obviously pregnant.

As my friend started toward her, she stepped off the porch and held out her hands to him. At that point he did something I never thought to see him do (and likely never will again), and actually ran forward to scoop her up into his arms.

"I'm so sorry, Rose. Please forgive me," he said in a chocked voice.

"Sherlock, we were both to blame. It was just that stubborn Holmes pride that wouldn't let us admit it. So if you'll forgive me, I'll forgive you, and we'll never speak of it again." All of a sudden she realized her position and gave that funny little twitching smile that was also a characteristic of my friend, "Now if you could put me down and introduce me to your companion, we can go into the house and have tea, rather than stand out here and be a spectacle for the neighbors."

Completely embarrassed by his emotional outburst, he set her down hastily and stepped back to retrieve his dropped luggage, his normally pale complexion tinged slightly pink. I think he had forgotten me up to that point, but now he turned to me and performed the introductions gallantly.

"Rose, my friend and colleague, Dr. John Watson. Watson, my little sister, Mrs. Rose Jacobsin."

"I am most pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Jacobsin," I said as I took her offered hand.

"Please, call me Rose, only our minister calls me Mrs. Jacobsin. I am so pleased to meet you…it will be quite interesting to hear what someone else thinks of my stubborn older brother." This last bit was said with a sly look at Holmes which he pretended not to notice. She then turned to her son, "Drew, darling, go ask Summers to get a tea tray ready and tell Emma that she will need to prepare the two guest rooms for your uncle and Dr. Watson."

As soon as Drew had gone, she turned back to us with a sudden seriousness, "I will have your luggage taken to your rooms. Alec will be home in a couple of hours, and we can discuss this…_problem_ then. We have tried to keep it from the children; there is no need to worry them unnecessarily."

Holmes and I nodded our assent, and the three of us entered the house.

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I had a terrible time keeping Holmes in character here, and I'm not really sure how I did.

I'm not entirely sure where to go from here, but I think I'm really going to have some fun with Drew.


	4. Another Incident

What did I say about writer's block? I finally sat down yesterday and made myself work on it. Here are the results of my labor, I hope you like them.

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**Chapter 4**

Watson:

Tea turned out to be a very pleasant affair. Summers, the Jacobsin cook, was an elderly woman of British origin and so was able to prepare a more than passable pot of our national drink. Also, Rose proved to be a charming conversationalist, and her company had a wonderful effect on Holmes. He became quite communicative, and I learned more about his extended family in that half hour than I had in our entire acquaintance, including the fact that they had a great many relatives still living in France, as well as numerous aunts, uncles, and cousins scattered throughout England and the rest of the world. The two of them were deep in a discussion on the sanity and probable life expectancy of a certain Great-Uncle Jeremiah who lived in a cottage on the Sussex Downs, when Drew and his sister entered the parlor, looking unnaturally neat for such young children.

Though I had seen Holmes interact with his irregulars and at times thought him really just an overgrown child himself, it had never occurred to me that he might be the kind of man who would like children. The idea simply didn't fit with the opinion I had of his rather cold, undemonstrative nature, yet when I saw his eyes light up as his niece and nephew came in, I found myself wondering how I could ever have formed such an erroneous assumption.

"I have something here that I think the two of you might like," he said as he pulled a somewhat oversized package of hard candies from pocket and offered them to little Sally with that reassuring smile that worked so well on his female clients and could have broken a score of hearts had he been so inclined. The tender age of its recipient didn't seem to lessen its effectiveness in the least, and she stepped cautiously from behind her brother to accept the gift. "Be sure to share those with your brother." The two children thanked Holmes in unison, their faces positively beaming.

"Really, Sherlock, sometimes I think you do these things just to torment me. Are you trying to spoil their supper?" Rose said with an exaggerated sigh and a smile that belied her words. She looked at her children, "One each. We'll be have supper in about an hour." Satisfied by their angelic nods of agreement, she turned back to us and noticed that my friend had removed his cigarette case from his pocket and was about to light one. A look of complete horror passed over her face. "Sherlock Andrew Holmes! You may NOT smoke in my house! I realize that almost every other boy in your college class was doing it, but I think that it is a repulsive habit, and if you wish to indulge yourself, you will do it outside. Do I make myself clear?"

Holmes looked as if he was about to protest, but I interrupted before he had a chance, "You know, Holmes, it's not healthy for a woman about to have a baby to be around smoke." It was a rather new theory, and still unproven, but I figured that mentioning it would work to prevent a quarrel between the recently reconciled siblings. My assumption proved correct, and Holmes put his cigarettes away with a scowl that soon disappeared when he noticed Drew staring at him and absently slipping candies into his mouth.

"What are you thinking about, little man?"

"Are you and Doctor Watson going to come to the fireworks next week?"

"Fireworks?" I asked.

"For Independence Day, Doctor. Alec may have married an Englishwoman, but he's American to the core, and our son holds the same unshakable patriotism. We've gone to see the fireworks every year since before Drew was born," Rose answered as she removed the bag of candy from Drew's by now rather sticky hands.

I am strongly loyal to the crown, and it is rare for Holmes to participate in anything even remotely social, but having travelled so far and with the case far from solved I doubted that we would be leaving for at least a couple of weeks. Under those circumstances, I could see no possible reason to refuse. Surprisingly, Holmes seemed to be thinking along the same lines, for he answered in the affirmative almost immediately, resulting in his nephew's smile widening beyond what I thought possible.

The boy was giving us the details of the coming event with enthusiasm only a seven year old could be capable of when a rather tall, auburn haired man of about thirty entered the room, causing the narrative to end with an abrupt "Papa!" as Drew and Sally threw themselves into their father's arms.

"Alec, you're home early! Look who's here. You remember my brother Sherlock, and this is his friend Doctor Watson."

"Yes, we were finished a bit sooner than I expected. Pleased to meet you, Doctor. It's good to see you again, Sherlock," he said as he shook our hands. I noticed that his grip wavered ever so slightly, but I could see no other signs of agitation. "Drew, you and Sally go help Emma set the table. I'm hungry enough to eat a bear." As soon as the children were gone, he dropped his cheerfulness so abruptly that I was left to wonder how he could have hidden his anxiety so well. "We had another_ incident_ today," his voice shook and he gripped the back of his wife's chair to steady himself. "Rose, darling, I think it would be best if you went to Jenny's for the night." He took a deep a deep breath and closed his eyes as if to block out some terrible image. "Tom is … dead."

Rose:

I could hardly believe what Alec was saying. Thomas Arrow was Alec's partner. They had grown up together, and ever since Alec had brought me to Baltimore almost nine years ago, Tom's wife, Jenny, had been my closest friend, teaching me about American customs and just being an ear to listen; we even had children nearly the same ages. "How did it happen?" I asked though I was almost afraid to here the answer.

My husband sat down on the sofa and buried his face in his hands. I moved to sit next to him and rubbed his back; I could tell he needed the support. Finally, when he was a little more composed, he began, "We were leaving the office for lunch. As we came out, the breeze picked up and blew Tom's hat from his head. Just as he jumped to catch it, I heard a shot, and Tom fell. He died in my arms a few minutes later without a word. Rose, that bullet was meant for me. if Tom hadn't jumped in front of me right then, I wouldn't be here."

I didn't know what to say; I didn't even know what to feel. On the one hand, I couldn't help but be selfishly pleased that Alec was sitting here beside me, yet on the other hand, I grieved for my friend who never got the chance to say good-bye to her husband and for her children who would now have to grow up without a father. Tom was such a good man. How could the world be so cruel?

"Did you see anything?" Honestly, Sherlock seriously needed to acquire some tact.

"No, nothing. The street was crowded, and as soon as Tom hit the ground, we were surrounded by so many people that the police actually had to fight there way through the crowd." Alec's voice was beginning to steady, but I continued to rub his back. This was just like everything else in this case – no evidence, and I informed my brother to that affect.

"That is part of what makes this such an intriguing case, but never fear, no matter how slim, when a crime has been committed, there is always evidence of some kind, and I intend to find it," he answered.

Alec looked up at that. "I only hope you can, Sherlock," he said, his voice quite firm now. He glanced at me, "for all our sakes."

* * *

I admit right here that my medical knowledge is very slim, but I do seem to remember that it was during the Victorian Era that doctors started to make the connection between smoking and illness. As to whether or not Watson would know anything about second hand smoke, I don't have the faintest idea, it just fit in my story.

I am started on Chapter 5, and I hope to have it posted withon a day or two, but I make no promises.

Please review! The more I get, the more chance there is of my finishing quickly.


	5. The Study

**Chapter 5**

Holmes:

Rose left soon after the evening meal. I don't know how I could ever have disliked my brother-in-law. Aside from the fact that his acting almost surpassed my own and that Watson has difficulty deceiving _anyone_, he reminded me a great deal of my friend. He was very intelligent and practical with great strength of will, yet he had a slight romantic streak and was loyal almost to a fault; definitely like Watson. He was also a wonderful parent. He kept up a bold front before his children at supper, and when they asked him where their mother was going, he explained to them in simple, straightforward language designed not to spoil their dreams what they were going to find out anyway, that Mr. Arrow had been "killed in an accident", that "Mama" was going to stay the night with Mrs. Arrow, and that they were to be especially kind to Tim and Mandy, etc. My admiration grew as I listened to him, for he gave no indication of his distress other than a solemn manner suited to his subject.

Soon he sent his children to bed and promised to be up soon to tuck them in.

"When would it be convenient to visit your office, Jacobsin?" Brother-in-law or no, I simply could not bring myself to call any man I had not grown up with by his first name.

"It's liable to be rather hectic, but I suppose tomorrow would do well enough, though I doubt you'll be able to find anything now. The office itself has been cleaned since the robbery, and poor Tom's murder happened on a busy street; the traffic would compromise any remaining evidence."

"Still, I may find something that your bumbling police force missed."

Watson chose that moment to break in with the question I was just about to ask, he really doesn't give himself enough credit in those stories if his. "What about this house? Your wife mentioned that it had been broken into as well."

"Yes, my study. I was about to suggest that the two of you examine it. The police have already done so, but seeing as how they are, as Sherlock puts it, _bumbling,_ you may in fact find something that they missed. I can show it to you right now, if you so desire?"

"I think that would be most profitable," I replied as Watson and I followed him from the parlor.

The study was in the back of the house with windows looking out on an immaculate rose garden, and I could see a small stable beyond that with a road passing within fifty yards of it. Having made note of the room's position, I returned my attention to the interior.

"You will notice, Sherlock, that the shutters close and lock on the inside without a crack. I also keep the door locked at all times for security reasons; the maid isn't even allowed in here," Jacobsin informed me.

I could well believe that last statement. Watson often complains about the state I leave our rooms in, but this mess made me appear to be as tidy as _Mycroft_ by comparison. "What alerted you that there had been a break-in?" I asked, trying to make my way across the room without trampling the carpet of papers.

"That safe," he said, indicating a grey door in the wall by what I assumed to be his desk, though it was difficult to tell in all the clutter, "was open, and a yellow envelope was missing. The papers it contained are not of any great importance alone, but in combination with other information I possess, they could mean the difference between life and death for one of my clients."

Watson looked up from scribbling in his notebook. "And who is this client?" he asked.

"One of our prominent city officials was killed last month, and his manservant has been arrested for murder. Those papers were part of a series of documents I plan to submit as evidence that the official had been involved in activities of a _questionable_ nature and died while engaged in said activities. In other words, death by miss adventure – not murder."

"So it would seem that you are only a secondary target, and that this manservant is the one they mainly desire to harm," I remarked from my position on the floor where I was examining the safe.

"Either that or they are trying to protect themselves from a charge of murder, which still boils down to convicting the manservant," Watson added.

"It would appear that way, except that the documents taken from my office were from entirely unrelated cases," Jacobsin responded.

"The natures of those other cases if you please," I requested.

"The first was a robbery almost a year ago. A man was shot in the arm after walking in on a group of men looting his safe. Four of his son's friends were convicted and sentenced to five years in prison for robbery, and the one who did the shooting received twenty for attempted murder. The papers taken from me were merely the official records of testimony given at the trial. The second set of documents taken pertained to a blackmailing case that Tom was handling. I'm afraid I don't know any other details on it. Now if you don't have any other questions for me, I should go and tell my children good night, or else they will soon be coming to look for me."

"Just one more for now," I said, "upon examining the door, I saw no marks to indicate the lock had been picked. This means that your intruder must have used a key, as the window has not been tampered with. My question is who, other than yourself, has access to this room and that safe?"

"Well, Rose has a key to the room and so did Tom. He also knew the combination since he would occasionally have to get things from it when I was out of town, but of course, you couldn't suspect either of them. The only other person with access is Davis, my secretary, but he's worked for me since Tom and I started the firm; I trust him completely, and I think that once you get to know him, you will find that he is above suspicion."

"I certainly hope so, Jacobsin, but that would still leave us without a specific suspect."

"Well, you know, I've been thinking about that, and I'm starting to wonder if what I told Rose about there being too many suspects is accurate. However, that is a discussion for another time. My children will be wanting me, and I have some work that must be finished tonight. Feel free to poke around in here as much as you like. If you need anything, you can ring for Emma, or I will be in the library, probably until late. Good night, gentlemen."

When Jacobsin had left us, I returned my attention to the room. "Watson, do you see this ash here on the floor? It's from a Havana cigar, which considering my sister's dislike of tobacco, I would wager was smoked by one of our intruders rather than a member of this household."

"But, Holmes, your sister already told us that one of the men smoked. What good does it do us to know his preferred brand?"

"Watson, how many times must I tell you that even the most obscure fact may be the point an entire case hangs upon; nothing should be overlooked." I answered. Then, I noticed he seemed rather hurt by my curtness. "I'm sorry…this room is positively stifling. What say we go see if some of that distant sea breeze can make it to the garden?" Having said it, I found that I did actually think it a good idea. Watson agreed and we headed out to the porch. Yes, it was defiantly a good idea, mainly because I could smoke without risking my sister's wrath.


	6. Greater Urgency

**Chapter 6**

Jacobsin:

As I sat near the library window, I just couldn't seem to focus on the documents before me. Normally I can simply block out portions of my mind when I need to concentrate on something in particular. However, having one's life threatened and losing someone close to you seriously damages the control of the mind. Every time I looked down at the papers on the table in front of me, I kept seeing Tom's face as he breathed his last.

He had always been such a cheerful, down-to-earth fellow, the first to laugh at a joke, the first to say that everything was going to be okay, and the last to give up, yet as he had lain there on the pavement, he wasn't the Tom I knew. The man who had died in my arms wasn't laughing but crying; gasps came from his lips instead of reassurances, and then that man had given up.

Maybe I should leave Baltimore. One good man had already been killed for being to close to me. What if next time it was Rose or Drew or Sally? I didn't think that I could survive losing one of them. Yet if I left, they might be harmed on purpose in an attempt to locate me. Running wasn't an option then, so what was?

Who would want to harm me anyway? That had to be the key. If I could discover who had a strong enough motive and the means to carry it out, then maybe Sherlock could find the evidence to convict them. I set to work writing out names; now that it had moved to murder, the list would be quite a bit shorter, for I couldn't see some of my enemies stooping that low. At least one good thing came from the whole heartbreaking affair.

I must have dozed off, because I was wakened rather abruptly by the clock striking midnight. I hastily made a second copy of my list – probably from force of habit – and started to clear up my papers, knowing that I wasn't going to get anything more done tonight. Suddenly there was a crash of breaking glass, and everything went black.

Watson:

I woke the next morning with that contented, lazy feeling one gets after a good nights sleep in a soft bed, quite an improvement after the rough seas on the trip over. I could hear Holmes stirring in the next room; I was going to have to get up soon before he took it into his head to come wake me. If three years had taught me anything, it was that my friend could put his mind to some of the most devious of uses when the mood stuck him.

However, just as I was trying to decide how much longer I could safely remain in bed, the house was filled with the sound of terrified screaming. I was into my dressing gown and out of my room in two seconds, almost colliding with Holmes, who was amazingly already dressed with his typical neatness, in the hall as we both raced to find the source.

When we reached the library, I felt my heart skip a beat.

Alec Jacobsin was stretched out on the floor, broken glass was scattered everywhere, and the carpeting was stained with blood. Summers arrived at the same time as us and was doing her best to calm the hysterical Emma, leaving Holmes and I to tend to Jacobsin.

Expecting the worst, I frantically searched for a pulse, letting out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding, when I found one. It was weak, but at least it was there.

"He's alive, but only just," I said as I looked into my friend's worried face.

Using a blanket as a makeshift stretcher, Holmes and I moved the injured man upstairs to his bedroom. Luckily the head wound, though serious, had not broken the skin, so his blood loss was minimal, resulting from the glass cutting him when the window broke.

It took some time to bring him around, and in the meantime, Rose returned.

I couldn't help but be impressed by her manner, for though her face showed her agonized feelings plainly, there was no hysterical weeping, not even any tears. She simply sat upon the bed next to him, gently held his hand, and softly kissed him.

"He will be all right, Doctor Watson. Won't he?" she asked so softly that I almost didn't hear her.

"It's too soon to tell. We can only hope and pray that it will be so. However, I haven't been able to bring him around, and until he wakes, there is no way to tell what damage may have been done to his brain," I answered in my most reassuring voice. If only a tone was enough to somehow make the words easier to hear. I didn't voice the thing I feared most – _that he might not wake._

As if in response to my words and just to contradict my thoughts, I heard a low moan and the figure on the bed stirred. Rose responded immediately.

"Alec? Alec, can you hear me?"

Jacobsin finally opened his eyes and blinked in confusion, probably trying to clear his likely blurry vision. "Rose? 'S that you?" he slurred.

"I'm here; everything is going to be fine now," she answered as she gently stroked his cheek.

I took his pulse again; it was still weak, but it was steadier than it had been. "Jacobsin, can you tell me what happened? Do you remember?"

"Th' list…"

"What list?"

"Was writing…list…people who…might want…hurt me. Don't 'member…after that…"

He was obviously not up to much excitement, so I hastened to finish my examination. Having satisfied myself that he would make a full recovery, I left him alone with his wife, who refused to leave him despite my suggestion that the strain might have been too much for a woman in her condition.

As I exited the room, I realized that I was still in my dressing gown and went to change before going to see how Holmes was occupying himself.

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I'm not really pleased with this chapter, but I didn't really want to leave my little story so long without an update. I do promise that the next one will be better, though; least ways in my opinion. I'm already started on it, but what with school and all, you never know just how long it will take to get it up.

Also as I said before, my medical knowhow is very slim. If you see any glaring problems with this story please let me know. I did do some research, but everything I could find on treatment of a concussion said "consult a doctor." There's my excuse anyway.

Please review!


	7. Progress?

Thanks to those who left me the medical info in your reviews; I am sure it will be very useful! Hugs to both of you!

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Chapter 7:**

Holmes:

I never have liked to feel useless, so when I saw that there wasn't anything I could possibly do for my brother-in-law, I headed back downstairs to see what clues I could discover in the library. However, before I could reach the end of the hall, I heard something that made me pause.

It sounded like sobbing.

I cautiously opened the door to my right and peered in.

The room turned out to be a nursery, and the scene that met my eyes both warmed and broke my heart.

My niece and nephew, still in their night clothes, were huddled together on one of the little beds. Sally was crying bitterly, and Drew was sitting with his arms wrapped protectively around her shoulders.

As I stood listening, I could hear him whispering gently to her. "Papa's gunna be okay. Cryin' isn't gunna help anything. Doctor Watson's gunna make him better, and Uncle Sherlock's gunna catch the bad men that hurt him, so everything's gunna be all right. Please, stop cryin', Sally."

I could only hope that it would be "all right" as I stole softly into the room and sat down next to Sally, putting my arm round both of the children.

Drew looked up at me, his eyes and voice much older than his tender years. "Uncle Sherlock, Papa? Is he…?"

"He was alive when I left his room a few moments ago, and Watson is such a good doctor that I'm sure he'll be fine in no time at all," I answered, trying to be cheerful as I lifted little Sally onto my lap, making room for Drew to scoot closer.

Normally I shun any and all physical contact, but some instinct told me that this was what these children needed right now, and strangely enough, I found that I didn't really mind in this instance. There was something sort of reassuring in knowing that they trusted me enough to get this close.

We sat there together for a few moments without speaking while my niece's sobs quieted into hiccups, when my nephew hesitantly broke the relative silence.

"Uncle Sherlock, were the men who hurt Papa the same ones who stole his papers?"

I knew that boy was observant from the moment I laid eyes on him. He had known what was happening all along!

"I believe so, but it's hard to tell with as little evidence as I've been able to find so far, little man."

"Do you want us to help you look? Sally and I are good at findin' things. Aren't we, Sally?"

"Yep, we found Emma'th gloveth, an' Mama'th pin, an' Papa'th hat, an' my doll, an' Mith Hubben'th cat…" That child had quite a lisp when she was agitated.

"Yes, I'm sure you are both very good searchers, but I wouldn't know yet what to tell you to find. But if I do need your help I'll be sure to let you know. Right now, it's probably almost time for breakfast. Why don't you get yourselves dressed, and we'll go see what Summers has made?" I didn't think it necessary to tell them that this wasn't something children should be involved in. Besides who could tell? They might be able to help after all.

I was about to leave the room when little Sally piped up, obviously trying not to lisp, "Uncle Ssssherlock, I need help."

Thirty minutes later, having received a crash course in hair ribbons, sashes, and boot buttons, I finally managed to get them down to the dining room. After being sure that they were seated at the table, and Summers had come to take care of serving them their breakfast, I grabbed a piece of toast for myself and headed to examine the library at last.

Watson:

Holmes wasn't in the library when I arrived down stairs, but before I could go looking for him, I happened to glance out the window. My friend was crawling about on the grass with his magnifying glass, searching every inch of ground for clues to the identity of Jacobsin's assailant. However just as I was about to go out to him, he stood up swore a loud oath that I could only hope his niece and nephew weren't near enough to hear and stalked back to the house.

A few moments later, he entered the room and slumped dismally into a chair.

"Holmes?"

My friend looked up in concern, "How is Jacobsin?"

"He has a very bad concussion, but despite how long he was out, there doesn't seem to be any significant memory loss. He is rather nauseous and dizzy, but that should only be temporary. Your sister is with him right now, and if he gets plenty of rest there is no reason that he can't be up and around in few days, though he probably should take it easy for a week or two."

His thin form relaxed slightly in relief. "Then I haven't failed completely yet," I heard him whisper to himself, probably not even realizing that he had said so I could hear. Aloud he said, "That's good to hear, Watson. Incidentally, I've found the missile that struck him." He picked up a rock from the table next to his chair and tossed it to me. "I thought that by studying the ballistics, I would be led to where the man had been standing and so learn something of his identity. Unfortunately our man was extremely cautious; though I could see someone had been there, all tracks had been obliterated so that there was know way I could gain any information from them. Therefore I have nothing that I didn't have before."

"Did you look through Jacobsin's papers?" I asked as picked a file that had fallen to the floor.

"I didn't think it was necessary, since whatever he was working on last night isn't likely to have any bearing on the case," he answered with a wave of his hand.

"Oh, I don't know, it seems to me that there might be something invaluable here I said, starting to sift through the papers on the table.

Holmes glanced over at me suspiciously. "You've never been very good at deceit, Watson. What did my brother-in-law tell you?"

Ah, there it was! "Just that before he was knocked out he had been working on a list of possible suspects," I replied as I held the list out to him.

In a flash, Holmes had snatched the paper from my hand and was eagerly studying it.

"Ten names…Ha! And see here he's even provided a brief description of each man along with possible motives! Now, my dear fellow, I ask that you go get yourself some breakfast and not disturb me for at least three hours, at the end of such time I may have a better idea how I am to proceed."

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I think I must have rewritten the second part of this at least three times. I've always considered myself to be more of a Watson, yet Holmes's voice seems to be coming easier to me. Not really sure why that is...maybe just the unexplored possibilities?

Please review!


	8. The Secretary

Author's Note: Sorry about the long wait for this chapter, but I've been suffering from one of the worst attacks of writer's block I've ever experienced. I hope this makes up for the wait.

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Chapter 8**

Watson:

I went searching for Holmes at the time he had appointed and found him seated on the porch steps with his back against the railing, his knees drawn up to his chin, and his pipe between his lips exactly as if he were curled up in his armchair in Baker Street.

"Isn't it strange, Watson, that even when everything seems dark, the sun continues to shine anyway? Perhaps it's nature's way of reminding us that our petty, little problems are only temporary…that we are part of something larger - more important?" he remarked as I sat down beside him. I do not think that I will ever cease to be amazed by the philosophical twists Holmes's mind can take at the times I least expect it.

"I suppose it does seem rather strange for that to be so, but what does that have to do with the case? Have you decided on a course of action?"

Holmes chuckled. "Ah, my dear Watson, for all your romanticism, you always seem to know when I should keep my feet on the ground. As to the case, with my brother-in-law temporarily out of commission, I think the only course left to us is simply to locate each man on the list in turn and try to find a connection through one of them. However, first I believe we should stop by Jacobsin's office and speak with his secretary. It's just possible that he may have other information."

*********

Jacobsin's office was located on the second floor of a stately stone building on the south side of what our elderly cab driver called Monument Square. Indeed he seemed rather enthusiastic about the opportunity to show it to two Englishmen, and insisted on telling us its entire story beginning and ending with the fact that his father had assisted in erecting the statue in its center. Actually it was quite a fascinating story, but as the man showed no sign of stopping any time soon, I was relieved when my friend finally managed to explain that we really needed to be somewhere else.

When we finally arrived at the office marked _Arrow and Jacobsin, Attorneys at Law_, we found to be occupied only by an extremely distracted gentleman of about forty with mousy, brown hair and spectacles.

"If you'll wait, I'll be with you just as soon as I can," he snapped before we even had a chance to introduce ourselves, while he practically flew about the room filing the large stack of legal documents he had been gathering as we opened the door.

It certainly wasn't a bad looking outer office. The dark wood furniture gave the room a stable feel but there was enough light coming from the two large windows so that the atmosphere was kept from becoming oppressive. There were also various personal effects scattered around to make the office more inviting and less forbidding to the common clients who frequented it. I was particularly drawn to a set of American army medals given for valor in combat which were obviously the property of the secretary since they were displayed prominently on his desk.

A couple of moments later, the secretary finished his task and, sliding several more stacks of papers to the side of his desk, sank wearily into his chair before addressing us again, this time somewhat more courteously, "My apologies for the wait, gentlemen, but I simply had to get those filed before I could forget what cases they were to be filed under. I'm afraid that we've had a bit of an upset around here. In case you hadn't heard, Mr. Arrow died yesterday, and judging by the lateness of the hour, I doubt Mr. Jacobsin will be in today. However, if you'd like to leave a message, I'll see to it that he receives it as soon as he arrives."

"Think nothing of it. As to the message, I don't think that will be necessary, since it was actually you that I have come to speak with Mr. Davis," Holmes said as he held out his hand.

"Me, sir? But why would you…" he sputtered as he took the offered hand.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson. My brother-in-law may have mentioned that I was coming to visit?"

"Ah, yes, I believe he did make some remark about it," he responded, "though I'm afraid you've picked a rather poor time for a family visit. How can I be of service to you?"

"You can tell me everything you know about the recent murder and robberies that have taken place here," Holmes answered.

Davis immediately became suspicious, "And just why would you be wanting that information, if I might ask?"

"Mr. Holmes is a detective, and he's trying to discover who has been trying to harm your employer, if you would be so kind as to cooperate," I spoke up, with a great deal more heat than I had intended, though in my defense it was almost lunchtime and I was getting hungry in addition to being very thoroughly annoyed with the man's behavior.

"I apologize, Doctor; I simply didn't wish to run the risk of accidentally saying something which might harm Mr. Jacobsin. If the two of you would like to take a seat, I will do my best to answer your questions. Can I get you anything?"

"Oh, no, we're quite comfortable for the time being," Holmes said as he leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. "All I want are the facts, no embellishment. Watson, take notes."

"Where should I begin?"

"At the beginning, of course! When did all these threats and robberies begin?"

"As to the threats, it's hard to tell since he has been receiving them on and off for various reasons ever since I started working for the firm. However, I can say for certain that they did become more frequent around the beginning of April."

"And the robberies? I understand that the items taken were not of any real importance?"

"To a certain extent. The first time the office was broken into was the first weekend of May. All they took was a set of trial transcripts, which struck me as odd, since they could have obtained them easily without stealing them."

"What about the second robbery?" I asked.

"I'm just coming to that, Doctor. About two weeks later it happened again; another set of papers went missing, and let's just say that it was a good thing that they were only rough copies, because otherwise there might have been very serious repercussions."

"Blackmailing case wasn't it?"

"Of sorts, but if you wish to know about it, I'm afraid that you'll have to go elsewhere. Professional courtesy and all that, you understand?"

"Of course. What about the first attempt on Jacobsin's life?" Holmes said as he finished his cigarette and stood to pace the room.

"Well, I wasn't with him at the time, but my understanding of it is that someone tried to run him down in a cab as he was leaving the courthouse."

"And yesterday? Did you happen to see anything at all?" At this point, the detective had taken up his position by the window and was staring out it as if something interested him greatly.

"As a matter of fact I did…"

"Oh?" That had caught Holmes's interest.

"…But the police said it was too vague to be helpful."

"Let me make that decision. What did you see?"

"I happened to be standing at the window when the shot was fired, and I noticed a man standing next to the lamppost across the street. Unfortunately, even with my glasses I'm dreadfully nearsighted, but I can say for certain that he was about the same height as the doctor here and was wearing a grey suit. However, what struck me as being very odd was his hat; typical bowler, it was, but the brim seemed to be bright red! After Mr. Arrow fell, he went the other way."

"But surely the police would think a hat such as that was anything but vague?" I remarked.

"No features, Doctor. He could have changed his hat, and since I didn't see a gun, there's no proof that it was him just because he walked the other way. Maybe he had a weak stomach. Least ways that's what the policeman I talked to said."

"Never mind, Davis. What you say is quite interesting. Now just one more question. Can you think of anyone who might hate your employer enough to want to kill him?" Holmes inquired as he resumed hi pacing.

"Right off the top of my head the only one I can think of is Samuels. He's another lawyer, got his office over at the courthouse."

"Why would he have a desire to kill Jacobsin?"

At this point I noticed that Davis seemed to be fidgeting a great deal. "Well, it's kind of a mess. You see, back in February, Mr. Samuels' little brother was accused of…killing a woman and…let's just say that Samuels and your brother-in-law weren't exactly on the same side of the case. When they hanged Jim Samuels in March, his big brother vowed revenge. Then they sort of _had words_ at the beginning of the month. Only reason the police can't put the blame on him is that he was either out of town or in court when most of these things happened."

While Davis was speaking, my friend had seemed to sink into deep thought, but a few moments later he was back and his eye were twinkling with that intense energy which meant he had most likely found a thread of evidence, and for once I was fairly certain what it was as we thanked Davis for his help and headed across the square to the courthouse.

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I actually have Chapter 9 written so it should be up just as soon as I can get it typed.

Hope you enjoyed! Please review!


	9. Danger in the Background

Well I got it typed a little sooner than I planned, but that's definitely better than making you wait a month. Hope everyone enjoys!

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Chapter 9**

Holmes:

Visiting Samuels turned out to be a colossal waste of time. What with his protests of innocence interspersed with vows of hatred for my brother-in-law, the only purpose it ended up serving was to verify Davis's story, which I already knew to be true, at least that part of it.

As to the rest of his story, something didn't feel right, though I had no idea what it could be, and until I did I was simply going to have to give him the benefit of the doubt and proceed with caution.

That very singular hat he described could be the mark of a gang. However, it would have to be a rather recently formed one or else the police would have been sure to recognize it. Then again, perhaps they had recognized it and didn't want the information made public, or maybe it had been a young officer Davis had spoken with one who hadn't been familiar with the hat's symbolism.

This business being the work of organized crime would explain a great many things. Unfortunately it also made others more complicated, if indeed that was the answer at all.

While I detest working with the official forces, they first unconnected people on the scene, and there was always the slight possibility that they might have made note of something Jacobsin had forgotten to mention, though I highly doubted it. Also it might be a good idea to take a look at Mr. Arrow's body and the coroner's report.

All of the sudden my thoughts were broken into by Watson's voice, "I say, Holmes, where exactly are we going? We've been walking for almost ten minutes now, and it's past lunch time."

I had been so absorbed in my thoughts of the case that I hadn't even given thought to food. "I'd like to have a look at the official reports, Watson, and I seem to recall for our trip to the office that Police headquarters is just down this street, but I promise, my dear fellow, that as soon as we have completed our business there that we will get something to eat."

"That will do fine, Holmes, I can wait, but don't you think we should hurry? It's been clouding over since we left Jacobsin's office, and think it's going to storm."

Third Person:

He couldn't see anyone in the office as he entered, but he could tell by the smoke rising from behind the back of the heavy, ornate desk chair that he was not alone.

Despite the lack of sunshine, no lamps had been lit, leaving the room in a gloomy, grey shadow from the rain hitting the big window on the far wall.

Suddenly the whole chamber seemed to echo with a deep voice so patronizing that it was positively sinister. "The message you sent me said that you had something extremely _urgent_ to report?"

"Yes, sir. Less than an hour ago, I received a visit from a man by the name of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Apparently he's a relative of Jacobsin…and a British detective."

"Did you give him anything that could be traced back to us?" The anger in that voice made him shudder; it was a good thing that the chair wasn't facing him.

"Of…of course not, sir. I would never think of doing so."

"Well then, we have nothing to worry about, do we?"

"No, sir."

"Good." The chair slowly turned around so that he had a clear view of its occupant. To look at him, one would never think of him as anything more than a harmless, kindly, old grandfather, but he knew better. "Would you like a cigar?" the old man asked, holding out the box of Havanas.

"Thank you, sir…Sir, just a question; I know it's dangerous to have them alive, but is it really necessary that they be killed?"

"Killed or driven out of the country. They know too much – especially Jacobsin. You were at the meeting he walked in on."

"But we don't know that he overheard anything…"

"And we don't know that he didn't! We can't take that chance…with any of them."

"What if we gave them the opportunity to join us?"

"We've been over this before. Those men have to many scruples; they would never agree to join, and Jacobsin would turn us in to the government first chance he got."

"Than why hasn't he done anything yet, assuming he does know something?"

"He's probably waiting to get more information first so that he can have a real solid case when it goes to court. You're not getting nervous are you? Because you know what a nervous man could do to our little organization." He didn't even want to consider the implication those words held.

"Certainly not, sir. I just wanted to make for sure that I understood the situation completely and correctly. Now what are we going to do about the detective?"

"Nothing right now. Our _policemen_ will know better than to tell him anything useful, and they'll fix it so that no one else on the force will either. Without their help, there isn't much he can do to hinder us, and if he should become a nuisance, he's easy enough to dispose of. Isn't that right?"

"Yes, sir." He just hoped that this time he wouldn't be asked to do it.

The chair turned slowly back to the window. "You may go."

"Thank you, sir," he answered, glad to be getting out of that office; it always made his spine crawl. Good thing he'd been given the cigar; he needed something to steady his nerves.

Watson:

As hot as it was, I couldn't blame Holmes for not wanting to take a cab, but I was very much wishing we had when the rain started coming down in buckets. Fortunately we were less than a block from the station when that happened, but nevertheless we still received a drenching, making me very glad that it was summer.

When we finally managed to make it through the door, we were greeted by a young man with the dramatic combination of sleek dark hair and pale green eyes who introduced himself as Officer Wilson.

Holmes gave our names and then proceeded to provide the officer with an abbreviated explanation for our presence, culminating in a request to speak with the officer or officers in charge of the various robberies and yesterday's murder. Strangely enough, as my friend was speaking, I seemed to notice Wilson's brow darken ever so slightly, but I couldn't be sure, since when he spoke again he was just as polite and cheerful as before.

"Officer Cottle has been in charge of investigating the robberies, and he's off duty right now. However, I'll see if I can find Detective McClemmons for you. If you'll just wait right here for a moment, gentlemen."

"Holmes," I asked as soon as Wilson had gone, "is it just me, or does Wilson appear to be upset about something to do with this case?"

"It isn't just you, Watson. There is something strange about this whole business. From this point on we must be very careful of what we say and no one we meet is to be trusted."

"But, Holmes…" My sentence was cut short by the reappearance of Wilson leading another man who I could only assume to be Detective McClemmons. Taller and at least a stone heavier than Holmes, he reminded me somewhat of a Viking warrior, in spite of his impeccable grooming.

"I hear tell that ye lads would like to ask me about poor Mr. Arrow's murder," he said in a thick brogue. "Why don't ye come back to me office, and we'll talk about it."

"Thank you, McClemmons. Watson, why don't you stay here? I doubt I'll be gone very long, and I'll have someone come get you if I need your assistance."

After they left, I amused myself by examining my surroundings. As was typical of Americans, it was noisy and somewhat more relaxed than I thought proper, but otherwise the Baltimore Police Department was very similar to Scotland Yard. Several men and a couple of women, most of them in uniform, sat behind desks in an area separated from the rest of the room by a railing, and there seemed to be a steady flow of officers and citizens coming through on various business. The majority of them were relatively calm, but a few of the citizens were shouting loudly; I even found myself comforting a very distraught woman who said that her little boy had run away.

Soon after she managed to calm herself, a tired looking officer came to hear her story, and I was left once again with nothing to do. However, no sooner had I found an American magazine to read when Holmes reappeared at my elbow looking stormier than the clouds outside.

"We're leaving, Watson."

I wasn't relishing the thought of going back out into that downpour, especially as I was still somewhat damp from the first time, but I really didn't have a choice, so I dutifully followed my friend back out into the wet, where thankfully we acquired a cab within a few seconds.

We were half way back to his sister's house when my companion suddenly, though not unexpectedly, exploded. "These American police are worse than Scotland Yard!"

"I'm assuming that you did not get what you went for."

"Not one solitary _scrap_ of helpful information! Oh, he was polite enough when we were only discussing generalities, but as soon as I asked for details, the entire case somehow became _classified._"

"Well at least we still have the list, and we don't need police permission to investigate it."

"True, but without the police on our side, it's going to make bringing this case to a successful conclusion infinitely more difficult. For once I believe I might actually be happy to be working with _Lestrade_."

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Just a note: If you notice anything that is totally incorrect for the time period in this chapter, please let me know, since my only exposure to police departments of any kind has been through watching old detective shows, and unfortunately none of them took place in Victorian Baltimore.

Please review!


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